


numbers are a pain

by Prim_the_Amazing



Series: RVB Angst War [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Character Death, RvB Angst War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: How many sisters do you havesomeone asks and his mouth saysseventeenwithout checking with his brain, the hard, high number drilled into him by years and years of repetition, by the fact that it’salwaystrue. His name is Michael J. Caboose, he was born on the moon, and he has seventeen sisters.And then his brain catches up with his mouth, and it hurts, it hurts that his body was wrong and he said that, it hurts that he has to think, has to focus, has to remember the new number that his body hasn’t learned yet, has to speak up and correct himself long after the conversations or even the person has moved on.Actually it’s ten nowhe’ll say to space that’s empty by then.-Caboose left the moon with 17 sisters. He came back to 10.





	numbers are a pain

**Author's Note:**

> For RVB Angst War.
> 
> The wonderful illustration was done by [captainkonot!](http://captainkonot.tumblr.com/) Check their art out, it's great!

A lot of the things Caboose knows how to do is because of something Agent Washington calls “muscle memory”, which just means that he’s done something often enough that he doesn’t have to keep thinking about the thing without getting distracted or remembering it just a little bit wrong to get it right. He doesn’t have to think about the thing he’s doing at all if he wants, and his body will still get it right for him, which is nice. Caboose and his body are good friends. It’s his brain that keeps making mistakes, but Caboose doesn’t blame it. He knows what it’s like. So they’re good friends too.

He’s good friends with lots of people, and people that other people wouldn’t strictly call “people”, because they’re silly and strict and huffy. He’s friends with Freckles who’s his gun now, which is special because he can _always_ hug him, all day long, and don’t people realize that hugging someone all day long automatically makes them a good friend? Sometimes it almost feels like other people don’t care about their guns, except he knows that can’t be true. Grif loves his Grifshot and will hiss at you if you try and take it away from him, which he thinks is touching, and Caboose thinks maybe Tucker would try and make babies with his sword if he could. Which is gross, but at least that’s only a thing you do with people you’re friends with, so stupid Tucker isn’t being stupid about at least this one thing. He’s so stupid that he deserves credit when he does actually somehow manage to do something right. Not that Caboose will be the one to admit to that credit with his mouth and words where anyone could overhear and misunderstand and think he _doesn’t_ think Tucker is stupid. But, well. He gives him points in his mind. (He lost track of the points immediately, and just assumes that he’s always at a zero, because that sounds right, and also it’s one of Church’s two favorite numbers. The other one is “1”, so Tucker’s points are occasionally at a one as well when he's feeling generous.)

His thoughts got distracted again.

His body doesn’t get distracted, when he’s doing things he’s done over and over again. Unscrew the toothpaste tube, squeeze carefully at the bottom until white paste goes on the bristly brush part of his toothbrush that he’s holding steady in front of the toothpaste tube, but not _too_ much paste, let a _little_ water go on the paste on the toothbrush, smile big and bright for his reflection (who always smiles back, which is nice of him, they’re friends), and up down, side to side, over and over again until he’s dripping foam from his chin into the sink (and dribbling onto his sleep shirt, but that’s fine because he has to throw it into the hamper, or in the vague direction of the hamper, now anyways) and then when everything feels clean or someone’s knocking and yelling at the door he has to spit and drink and spit and drink from the sink until his mouth feels empty again, except for all of the things that have to be there. It’s so many steps, and they all have to be done just right or else _everything’s_ wrong, and he has to get it just right every morning and every night before he goes to bed or else he’s being _gross,_ and no one likes it when he’s gross.

And it sounds so hard when he thinks about it like that, but he does it just right _every_ time. It doesn’t feel right to go to sleep or to leave his room without brushing his teeth first (which is why he sometimes brushes his teeth more than he has to, but that’s okay because it’s not “gross” or “violent” or “a horrible fiery disaster”). He had, or his body had, learned how to do it right every single time when he was _eight._ Or was it nine? Something like that, anyways. His little sister Michelle always screwed the cap on for him though, because he got to put toothpaste on his brush first since he was the oldest, and although she wasn’t the youngest, she was the youngest who could brush her teeth and screw the cap back on herself. His littlest sister Anna still hadn’t, or her body still hadn’t, learned how to walk or talk when Caboose left to go fight in the “glorious” (he’s still not sure what some words mean, but he repeats them where he knows they’re supposed to go) war and send money back home and make friends, so she didn’t screw the toothpaste cap back on even if she was the youngest. He wonders if she’s learned it by now. Walking, talking, or brushing her teeth. Any of those would be impressive, and he’d tell her so.

He still forgets to screw the cap back on himself… every single time, because his body still thinks Claire will be there to take the tube from him and get her own paste, before handing it to Jessica who passed it further on the line after she got her paste, until it finally ended up with Michelle, who was the youngest who had teeth and could brush her teeth herself, and never forgot to screw the cap back on, because she is smart, both her body and her mind, and Caboose was so proud of her! He told her he was, and she asked why, and he told her it was because she never forgot to screw the cap back on. She said thank you and smiled at him. Michelle had a very pretty smile.

His thoughts got distracted again.

To be fair, his sisters are pretty distracting, because it’s so fun and nice to think about them all because _they_ are all fun and nice, at least to him. The point is, his body remembers things with many complicated and important steps, and it does them for him and helps him.

Flip the safety off, nestle the gun against the crook of his arm, point the gun at the people, push the other switch down, and out comes confetti! Or bullets. He’s still not totally sure about what makes confetti or bullets come out of Freckles, but it’s only those two things so it’s fine.

Put on underwear, _then_ put on the black body suit, _then_ put on the armor pieces, certain ones going certain places, all of them looking pretty much identical to him except for small details that his body has learned for him, using so, so many clasps and locks to get it all to fit and stick for the whole day, because he’s in the army and in the army you wear armor. Because army-armor, get it? Church taught him that, because he’s the best.

Take Agent Carolina’s hair and pass a brush through it _gently,_ because Nancy had a sensitive scalp but liked it when other people brushed her hair, especially when they gently ran the brush bristles over her scalp (“Why are you doing that? It’s not necessary.” “Yes it is, it’s the best part!”), and then take the hair when it's all smooth and silky and nice to touch (but not if it’s Susan, because her hair was super curly and never smooth, but still nice to touch), and _don’t_ pull, Caboose, and have two equal handfuls of hair that are separated and then weave them over and around each other, like a rope, except he’s never weaved a rope before, so Caboose doesn’t really get that. If he ever weaved a rope he’d weave it the way he weaved hair, he supposes. At the end, tie it all up with the tie your sister chose, because there are many to choose from and they all have their own favorites, and it's hard to remember because there’s so many of them and his body can only remember things he’s supposed to _do,_ and sometimes Diana wants to wear a color she didn’t like the last time anyways because she’s always changing her mind, and that’s a good thing, if confusing.

(“Thank you, Caboose,” Agent Carolina said, sounding as impressed with him as Caboose was with Michelle and the cap or Nancy and her law degree, running her hands over her braid, draped over her shoulder so she can see it better. She has pretty hair like Diana once had. Her hair was always pretty, but she was also always changing it and painting it different colors, which was fun and pretty, but also confusing. Lot’s of things confuse him though, so he doesn’t mind. He’s used to it. There’s nothing wrong about being confused, although being _certain_ about things is _certainly_ a nice break.

“You’re welcome, Agent Carolina,” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, and his body remembers that, his mouth moving to say _you’re welcome_ as soon as his ears hears the _thank you,_ no thought needed. “It was fun!” he adds himself after a moment of thinking, because it was, he got to do something he’s good at and doesn’t have to think about that reminded him of his sisters, so he could just sit there and braid and brush and think about his sisters while Agent Carolina slowly relaxed when he didn’t rip her scalp off or set her hair on fire or something.

She smiles at him, and her smile is very pretty.)

His thoughts got distracted again.

The point is, the point _is,_ Caboose’s body knows things. It knows lots of things, complicated things (how to turn a wrench, change a car’s oil, feed a gun a magazine of bullets, split the wires, fix the problem), and it’s much faster than him, his brain, his thoughts. He’ll see a guy standing around, and his body will remember _safety off aim shoot_ long before the guy actually registers and he thinks _that’s a friend!_ _Say hello!_ But the guy’s already lying on the ground and he isn’t going to answer and TUCKER DID IT. Because his drill instructor, his best friend, Agent Washington, they all showed him how to do it, taught him how to do it, made him do it, over and over over and over again and his body's learned it now and it's much faster than him. 

His body makes mistakes sometimes too, like Caboose and his brain. He understands. They’re still friends.

Things change. Doctor Grey, the scary opera lady, she says that he doesn’t have to sleep with his retainer on any longer, and Fiona used to remind him to put it in every night after he was thirteen, or fourteen, or something like that, because she always remembered since she had to sleep with a retainer too, and he remembered to do it after Fiona moved out to be a pilot because it didn’t feel right to sleep without it any longer. Caboose tried to do as the opera lady said, and it was _horrible._ He kept forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to sleep with a retainer any longer and he’d look for it for hours every night before he remembered and then his room was a mess because he’d moved things around to try and find it, and then he’d have to clean up his room because if he didn’t he’d forget about it and Simmons would see it through his open door during the day and get all screechy and squeaky and _ugh,_ and then he’d go to bed without it, try and sleep for a while, before sitting abruptly up because he’d _forgotten to put his retainer in_ and that must be why he couldn’t sleep! He’d be able to sleep if he could just find it, maybe it had fallen underneath his bed or he’d accidentally put it in his closet or--

Caboose slept poorly for a while, until his body got used to it. It took a long time. His body learns better than him, but it still takes a pretty long time. A long time to learn a habit, and an even longer time to forget it, when his brain is so good at forgetting things all on its own even when it isn't needed. It still reemerges from the depths sometimes, randomly, the panicked thought of _I forgot my retainer Fiona’s going to be mad._

But Fiona wasn’t going to be mad, because

His thoughts got distracted again.

His sisters are fun and nice to think about it, because they are fun and nice. And they’ve taught his body so many smart and good things, which is so nice and helpful. How to braid a braid, brush his teeth, cut his food into proper safe pieces before he eats it, to turn a wrench, change a car’s oil, split the wires, fix the problem.

 _Thank you_ someone says and his mouth says _you’re welcome_ before he can think better about it, if he’s really welcome, because isn’t he _always_ welcome?

 _How many sisters do you have_ someone asks and his mouth says _seventeen_ without checking with his brain, the hard, high number drilled into him by years and years of repetition, by the fact that it’s _always_ true. His name is Michael J. Caboose, he was born on the moon, and he has seventeen sisters.

And then his brain catches up with his mouth, and it hurts, it hurts that his body was wrong and he said that, it hurts that he has to think, has to focus, has to remember the new number that his body hasn’t learned yet, has to speak up and correct himself long after the conversations or even the person has moved on.

 _Actually it’s ten now_ he’ll say to space that’s empty by then.

He visits the moon. Home. His body slips back into the house like he’s the last puzzle piece clicking into place, old learned habits and “muscle memory” kicking in stronger than ever, and it almost feels like he never moved out, that no time passed at all. Except that that’s wrong, his body’s wrong. Seven of the pieces got messed up and are missing now, and now _nothing_ fits any longer. His mother and (remaining) sisters have had time to teach their bodies the way things are now, but he hasn’t, because he learns everything slower, and he just found out, he’s sorry, the mail didn’t reach him, he’s sorry, he would have read it, he's sorry.

He sleeps in his old (too small now, but it still feels so right) bed, and he waits for Fiona to tell him to put his retainer in every night even though that was a mistake his body made only sometimes now, he lies awake there for far, far too long before he remembers, hurts, tries to go to sleep, forgets, panics, wakes up, remembers, hurts, tries to go to sleep, forgets, panics--

Caboose slept poorly the entire time he was there.

He walks around the house looking for Nancy with a hairbrush in his hand because she liked it when he braided her hair _every_ day, when all of his other sisters only had him do it sometimes. Diana would see him and go _do you want to braid my hair?_ And he’d say yes, but only after he’s found Nancy because he hasn’t done it yet today and she must be getting impatient--

And Diana would look hurt, and he’d remember, and then he’d be hurt too.

But she’d still let him braid her hair, afterwards, because sisters are the best.

He’d carefully squeeze the exact amount of toothpaste he needs on his toothbrush before handing the tube and the cap over to Claire to send it along the line, except Jessica would take them instead even though she wasn’t the next oldest one she was the _third,_ skipping a step, all wrong, and he’d remember, and everything would feel wrong and distracting, and it would be his brain and not his body that would suddenly be in charge and he wasn’t sure about which steps went in which order even though he’s been brushing his teeth all on his own since he was eight, or nine, or something like that. And he’d be staring into the mirror, frozen, trying to remember how to do something he’s known how to do for so many years, and Jessica would look at him and say _what’s wrong?_ Except she’d look hurt and Caboose would know that it was because she’d seen his hurt face and remembered what was wrong all on her own, because his sisters were smart.

Stacy screwed the cap back on now, and she did it too loosely, it was wrong, it kept falling off. That wasn’t her part. He didn’t say anything about it, didn't want to see another hurt face today, _ever._

Colonies on moons, places where you couldn’t breathe outside of the glass bubbles, people stayed close to each other. They couldn’t really get away from each other even if they _wanted_ to, not that he ever wanted to, because he was always surrounded by his fun and nice sisters, who were all great and why would he ever want to leave them? Unless he had to, unless they _needed_ the money he could send them if he went and joined the army where he’d make a bunch of new friends, he swore, there’s no reason to cry.

Outbreaks of disease hit moon colonies like a ton of bricks. Too hard to quarantine patients from the rest of the population, so fast to spread, so long for cures to reach the moon. His mother had taught them all how to wash their hands properly over and over and over and over again so many times, he was the _best_ washer on Blue Team. Always cough and sneeze into your elbow. Keep ten feet away from anyone who looks sick at all times, keep as far away from them as you can. Don’t put your hands in your mouth, in your nose, on your eyes. Never eat anything that’s fallen on the ground. _Hygiene is important._ Hygiene is all.

It turned out it hadn’t been important to teach him how to hygiene good after all though, because he hadn’t been there when it had finally happened, something all colonizers dreaded. Hyper contagious. Deceptive dormancy period. Rapid degradation. Lethal. Caboose only knows some of these words, but he knows enough of them. He won't get to see if Anna ever learned how to walk or talk or brush her teeth all on her own after all. 

His mother had said _help me set the table Mikey_ and he’d said okay, and he’d put seventeen plates on the table plus two for him and mom, and she’d seen it and she’d gotten so hurt she cried. He kept hurting them. They’d already learned the new way things were now, and their bodies didn’t fall into old habits, didn’t make the same mistakes over and over again that made them remember and hurt. Their bodies knew the way things were now, and so they didn’t have to think about it. Caboose had to forget, remember, hurt, and then try and do it without his body’s help, and he always got it wrong then. He always got things wrong. He'd come back too early, his muscle memory still lagging behind everyone else. (He thinks it'll always be too early for him to come back to this house that tells his brain that there are seventeen sisters and one mom breathing and living along with him, deep to his core in a way that he can't shake or stop believing for longer than a short yet eternally painful moment at a time. It's like being told _I'm so sorry Mikey but_ over and over again, the blow just as hard every time.) 

Stacy walked into the dining room, saw the table he’d set for seventeen sisters, one brother, and one mom, and started crying too.

Caboose decided to cut his visit home short.

("How was it?" Andersmith asked when he came back, and Caboose’s mouth couldn’t thoughtlessly answer for him because that wasn’t a question with a set answer like _what’s your name?_ (Caboose) or _how many sisters do you have?_ (Seventeen. Wrong.)

"I forgot a lot of things," he said. He wasn’t sure how else to put it.

"It’s been a long time since you last were there," he said like he understood. "Memories fade."

"No, I remembered all of the old things. It’s the new things I kept forgetting," he explained.

He frowned, puzzled, but nodded firmly, so Caboose supposed he’d explained himself well enough.)

It hurts. It hurts for his body to make mistakes about this, for him to have to realize it over and over again, to have to remember it, to have to hurt. To have to relearn. _How many sisters do you have?_ Ten. _But I’d heard--_

He brushes his teeth and he forgets to screw the cap back on because that’s Michelle’s part, and she’s so good at it too.

He tries to sleep and every so often he lunges up, remembering in a panic that he has to find his retainer or else Fiona will be

She won’t be mad.

He would have prefered it if she would. Could. 

It’s hard. It’s hard and slow, even harder and slower than usual, because he thinks maybe his body doesn’t want to relearn this, these particular things that you have to know when you only have ten sisters and you used to have seventeen. It hurts not to know, to make the same mistakes over and over and over and over again, but his body doesn’t want to accept that he’s living in a word with ten sisters instead of seventeen, in a world without Michelle’s smile. He understands. He doesn’t want to accept it either. He just wishes-- he just wishes it would stop. Agent Washington had said that his “muscle memory” was a good thing, had praised it and been impressed like Caboose with Michelle’s toothpaste cap and Nancy’s law degree or Agent Carolina with the braid he’d made her. Caboose is starting to maybe not like it so much, even though he always did before.

(Agent Carolina kept coming to him for more braids. She chose the same hair tie every day, not like ever changing Diana. Teal, Private Cheesecake had called it. Susan had always chosen that color. He ran the bristly part gently, slowly over her scalp and she sighed and leaned into it like Nancy did. Keep brushing until the hair was smooth and silky, not like Susan’s at all, but in a way that still reminded him of Susan. Braid it like a rope, even though he’s never braided a rope before. Tie the tie carefully, hands thoughtlessly and instinctively following the complicated motions, correctly.

And now for the part of the routine that was just Agent Carolina, unique to her. Examine the braid. Stroke it. Look over her shoulder and smile at Caboose. A very pretty smile, that reminded him of Michelle. It's a good thing, he thinks, that he can make her smile like that with his hands that know how to braid. 

“Thank you, Caboose.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Carolina.”

She’s like a walking piece of home away from home, away from the moon. She’s like happy memories that he doesn’t have to remember are wrong now. She’s like--

“You’re my sister,” he says, and he feels like it should be a question, but it isn’t.

She loses her smile, her eyes widen, and she stares at him. This isn’t something she can do by muscle memory, this isn’t something that’s a routine. She has to think about this carefully so she doesn’t get it wrong, which always takes long for Caboose, so he understands, so he waits.

She regains her smile, and it’s even prettier, even more _her_ instead of Michelle or anyone else, and that’s not bad at all.

“Okay,” she says shyly. And then, a little hurt, a little softly, but still happy-shy, “It’ll be nice to have a brother again.”

She’s talking about Church, he knows, and he remembers, and he hurts. But he’s still happy too. _Okay,_ she had said, and he’ll be thinking about that over and over again as he tries to sleep tonight, whenever he forgets that he doesn’t need a retainer any longer and he has to screw on the toothpaste tube cap himself and he has to painfully and slowly recite to himself _Fiona Nancy Michelle Anna Claire Susan Kelly._ A sister, here so close, here so alive, here to touch and hug and braid.)

 _How many sisters do you have?_ people ask.

And instead of _seventeen_ or _ten_ or _eleven_ _and so many brothers too_ he learns to say, _a lot._ A set, fixed answer, always right, always correct, never hurts. Numbers are a pain anyways.


End file.
